government from affairs of state.
As for my own neighbourhood, in this respect it could not possibly be better provided for: the nearest shop is located directly under my windows. So if I should get the urge, itâs within spitting, as well as walking distance. When the shop was built a long time ago, it was called simply âBakeryâ. Nothing was ever actually baked there, but you could always buy bread and those rock-hard Soviet spice cakes. Later, when all the changes everyone knows about took place in the country, the shop was privatised and its name was changed to âRosa Bakery Shopâ. Who this Rosa was â the first owner of the shop, the ownerâs wife or his beloved, nobody knows these days. During the next fifteen years this retail outlet changed owners several times; the shop sign was renovated and the words in it switched places, but the set always remained the same. I realise that âRosaâ canât be taken off the sign, because thatâs the brand now. But I am surprised by the stubbornness with which our little shop continues to call itself a bakery, when they still donât bake anything there. On the other hand, it now has low-quality versions of everything. The undemanding consumer who lives only a step away, including myself, always does his or her shopping at the âRosaâ.
However, if I absolutely must have freshly-baked bread buns or some other product that isnât out of date, I have to take a step further. Located about two hundred metres from my building is a large, modern grocery store. Itâs considered to be economy class, but that doesnât mean the customer can make any huge savings there. In wintertime the old ladies tumble like ninepins on its icy steps, and the air on the sales floor is stale and stuffy in both winter and summer, not to mention the chronic shortage of shopping baskets and little keys for the lockers where you leave your own shopping bag. The economy-class grocery store represents our second level of consumer prosperity.
The third level, and the highest in our district, is exemplified by the âThroneâ shop, which is distinguished from the first two by its automatic doors and certain strict internal security measures. And also, of course, by its prices. This third level is only three steps away from me, but it is well beyond the reach of my wallet and, indeed, of most wallets around here. We usually walk past the âThroneâ: the miraculous doors gape invitingly wide, but all they catch is air. The checkout lady here is not overburdened with work: she spends the whole day leafing through a glossy magazine with her manicured fingers or flirting with the security guard.
The third level of consumption is not my level; my level lies somewhere between the âRosaâ and economy class, and thatâs only when my financial affairs are in relatively good order. My finances are subject to disruption when I have to make any large purchases â shoes, for instance, or trousers. In such cases I sometimes borrow from my brother-in-law, as I call Dmitry Pavlovich, my ex-wife Tamaraâs husband. I donât find it pleasant to do this, but I really have no choice. Iâm a writer and, therefore, a public figure and, therefore, thereâs no way I can manage without a decent pair of shoes. Thatâs the way I see it, and Tamara agrees with me, although nothing here really follows from anything else. My relative celebrity as a writer of prose simply allows me to get past face control at certain literary clubs in Moscow without any problem. Every now and then I attend other peopleâs presentations at one place or another, provided, of course that the functions are accompanied by a buffet meal. I donât go for the pleasure of it, only to demonstrate to Tamara and Dmitry Pavlovich that I am an item of some cultural significance. Otherwise, I suspect he wouldnât loan me the money for shoes, and I
As for my own neighbourhood, in this respect it could not possibly be better provided for: the nearest shop is located directly under my windows. So if I should get the urge, itâs within spitting, as well as walking distance. When the shop was built a long time ago, it was called simply âBakeryâ. Nothing was ever actually baked there, but you could always buy bread and those rock-hard Soviet spice cakes. Later, when all the changes everyone knows about took place in the country, the shop was privatised and its name was changed to âRosa Bakery Shopâ. Who this Rosa was â the first owner of the shop, the ownerâs wife or his beloved, nobody knows these days. During the next fifteen years this retail outlet changed owners several times; the shop sign was renovated and the words in it switched places, but the set always remained the same. I realise that âRosaâ canât be taken off the sign, because thatâs the brand now. But I am surprised by the stubbornness with which our little shop continues to call itself a bakery, when they still donât bake anything there. On the other hand, it now has low-quality versions of everything. The undemanding consumer who lives only a step away, including myself, always does his or her shopping at the âRosaâ.
However, if I absolutely must have freshly-baked bread buns or some other product that isnât out of date, I have to take a step further. Located about two hundred metres from my building is a large, modern grocery store. Itâs considered to be economy class, but that doesnât mean the customer can make any huge savings there. In wintertime the old ladies tumble like ninepins on its icy steps, and the air on the sales floor is stale and stuffy in both winter and summer, not to mention the chronic shortage of shopping baskets and little keys for the lockers where you leave your own shopping bag. The economy-class grocery store represents our second level of consumer prosperity.
The third level, and the highest in our district, is exemplified by the âThroneâ shop, which is distinguished from the first two by its automatic doors and certain strict internal security measures. And also, of course, by its prices. This third level is only three steps away from me, but it is well beyond the reach of my wallet and, indeed, of most wallets around here. We usually walk past the âThroneâ: the miraculous doors gape invitingly wide, but all they catch is air. The checkout lady here is not overburdened with work: she spends the whole day leafing through a glossy magazine with her manicured fingers or flirting with the security guard.
The third level of consumption is not my level; my level lies somewhere between the âRosaâ and economy class, and thatâs only when my financial affairs are in relatively good order. My finances are subject to disruption when I have to make any large purchases â shoes, for instance, or trousers. In such cases I sometimes borrow from my brother-in-law, as I call Dmitry Pavlovich, my ex-wife Tamaraâs husband. I donât find it pleasant to do this, but I really have no choice. Iâm a writer and, therefore, a public figure and, therefore, thereâs no way I can manage without a decent pair of shoes. Thatâs the way I see it, and Tamara agrees with me, although nothing here really follows from anything else. My relative celebrity as a writer of prose simply allows me to get past face control at certain literary clubs in Moscow without any problem. Every now and then I attend other peopleâs presentations at one place or another, provided, of course that the functions are accompanied by a buffet meal. I donât go for the pleasure of it, only to demonstrate to Tamara and Dmitry Pavlovich that I am an item of some cultural significance. Otherwise, I suspect he wouldnât loan me the money for shoes, and I
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